


Lovesick

by HelldiverOfLykos, poechild



Series: Johnlock RPs [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluffy Johnlock, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sick Fic, Sick Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4876066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelldiverOfLykos/pseuds/HelldiverOfLykos, https://archiveofourown.org/users/poechild/pseuds/poechild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's sick and John fusses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovesick

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](http://softlygasping.tumblr.com/)   
>  [HellDiverofLykos's tumblr](http://willasherlyscottholmes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Un-betaed, not Brit-picked. If you see any typos or Americanisms, let me know.  
> ~Kenzie

"If you had just listened to me in the first place you wouldn't be in this mess."

The pile of blankets in front of him grunts in response. It had congregated to the couch and refused to move for the better part of the week.

"Come on, you need to get some fluids in you."

The blankets remain silent. 

John sighs, setting the mug full of chicken broth on the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. "I'll be here if you need me."

John and the detective-now-turned-blankets had been out on a case, John doesn't even remember what it was for now, and for some reason Sherlock deemed it necessary to walk barefoot into Regent's Canal to retrieve a piece evidence he was sure had to be there. Pleading with Sherlock to let the Met handle something for once, John went ignored.

Long story short, nothing was there to find, Sherlock slipped and fell into the icy water- still in his bloody coat!- and contracted a cold the next day.

Sherlock's normally keen senses feel numbed down and his head's buzzing; not with information and ideas, but with a massive headache.

He's feverish, has a terribly sore throat, he's all stuffy, sneezing every two seconds, and coughing his brains out.

Sighing, Sherlock snuggles down further into his pile of blankets. He just wants this to be over.

But, Sherlock thinks, being sick has one perk: John is by his side nearly the whole day.

Sherlock has been fascinated by the ex-army doctor from the day they first met, from the first deductions he made of him, to the way he craved the adrenalin rush of adventure and danger. He was, in some ways, still an enigma to Sherlock, despite the countless hours he's spent observing him. If Sherlock were to describe him, he would say that John is his best friend and greatest mystery.

Sherlock reaches out a pale, thin arm for the mug of broth and takes a small sip. It sears his sore throat and he scrunches up his face in pain.

In the kitchen, John smiles when he hears the small clunk of the mug hitting wood. John's learned the language of Sherlock Holmes and he knows that if he leaves the room, Sherlock will do as he's told.

Coming back into the sitting area with a thermometer, he says, "I need to take your temperature, see if it has gone down."

An irritated huff.

John places his hand on where he estimates Sherlock's shoulder to be- it's difficult to tell underneath all those bulky blankets- and shakes him a little. "At least stick your head out, you git." All John can see is some curls on the material of the sofa, Sherlock's face hidden from view.

"Nnngghhhhh...," Sherlock groans.  
"Not. Coming. Out." His voice is scratchy and each word tears a bit more into his throat.

He hears John sigh dramatically and imagines his face, complete with the eyeroll and glare.

He struggles a bit inwardly, deciding whether to come out or just stay in his blanket cocoon.

He chooses the latter.

John pulls the covers down and away from Sherlock's face. Sherlock tries to hide away but there's nowhere for him to go.

"Open up." John places his hand against Sherlock's jaw.

The only response John gets is a what seems like an affectionate nuzzle into his palm and a wry smile. But that's not what he needs right now.

"It's either in your mouth or in your ear, your choice." John leans back and waits, hoping the option will force him to choose one of two evils.

Sherlock obediently opens his mouth for John to stick the themometer in and pulls the blankets tighter around himself.

Sherlock does admit, he loves seeing John like this. Gentle and caring, as opposed to the gun-wielding soldier he's used to having beside him on cases. He loves the way his hands can both nurture and take lives. The fact that John has only been kind to him, as opposed to dismissive and insulting like everyone else, means the world to him.

A tiny smile spreads over Sherlock's face.

"What are you all smiley about?" John says as he continues to pet Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock hums.

John has since conditioned himself to not take any of the fleeting touches Sherlock gives him as anything significant. He doesn't mean anything by it. He's just touch-starved from all the time he's been all alone. There's no reason for false hope.

The thermometer beeps and Sherlock opens his mouth. Squinting, John reads the small numbers.

"Thirty-seven and a half." John pats Sherlock's cheek. "Not quite a fever but we should keep an eye on it."

Sherlock grunts and buries his head in the blankets once more, not because he's feeling cold (although he is that), but to hide the blush creeping up his neck. He saw, for a fleeting moment, the way that John had looked at him when he thought he wouldn't notice.

But Sherlock notices everything. He notices the softness in his eyes, the slight curl of his lips at the edges, and he could have sworn he saw the ever-so-slight dilation of his pupils.

Sherlock shakes his head to clear his mind. He can't project his feelings onto John's actions, see things that aren't there. He knows that they aren't.

"Remember to drink some of that, you'll feel better sooner if you do," John says.

Leaving Sherlock to his cocoon, John sits himself in the armchair adjacent to the sofa and picks up that days newspaper.

The paper crinkles as he flips it open. His eyes scan down the page. Nothing interesting.

He flicks his gaze towards the lump on the couch. He sees the labored breaths moving the blankets up and down, up and down.

He's so quiet... Sherlock's never this quiet when he's not thinking. It's a bit unnerving. Well maybe he is thinking? But what could he be thinking about? A way to cure the common cold, no doubt; that big bloody brain of his churning away.

John sees the soft side of Sherlock; affectionate and pliant. Almost like a newborn kitten, Sherlock curls up around the nearest source of heat and craves physical touch.

John resists the urge to fuss about Sherlock, comfort him, touch him, do everything he says. He's a doctor for Christ's sake, it's natural for him to want to take care of people!

Setting the paper aside, he leans forward and clasps his hands together. "Is there anything you need?"

The blankets are pulled down, revealing Sherlock's face. He looks confused.

"What?"

A raised eyebrow.

"Shut up."

Sherlock watches quietly as John picks up his laptop in favor of the newspaper to update his blog.

Sherlock debates on whether to stay in his pile of blankets or snuggle up next to John. He feels the blood starting to rush back to his face as he thinks about the warmth of John's body against his, the steady movement of his chest as he breathes, the feeling of John's skin on his...

Sherlock abruptly cuts off his daydream and ducks his head back into the blankets.

"Sherlock?" John's muffled voice pierces through his woolly cocoon. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock slowly peeks his head out and is greeted by John's face, brow furrowed in a look of worry and concern.

"What's wrong?" John asks gently as he slips beside Sherlock on the sofa.

"Nothing," Sherlock whispers hoarsely. He can feel his face starting to flush red again, and his heart is threatening to rip out of his chest.

Sherlock feels a light but pleasant pressure on his head- a hand. John's hand. Why does he keep doing that? Why does he ever stop? Sherlock doesn't want him to ever stop.

"Headache?"

Glad for the excuse, Sherlock nods as well as his blanket prison allows him.

"Hmm." John strokes his hair. Keep doing that, Sherlock wills John.

Sherlock's eyes flutter close as he lets out a deep sigh. He loves this...being touched and being loved. He knows that John doesn't really love him, not the way Sherlock does. In friendship, oh definitely. But Sherlock will accept and enjoy the scraps of affection he receives.

"Sit up, drink some water. You're probably dehydrated."

The hand moves from his head to his back, sitting him up. Sherlock groans in defiance.

"Come on. Doctor's orders. Have some water or at least some soup. No tea," John adds when he sees Sherlock start to open his mouth in protest.

John leaves to the kitchen with the cold chicken broth in hand. He dumps it down the sink. No one likes cold soup.

He returns with a mug of fresh honey lemon for Sherlock's throat, sitting next to the bundle of blankets.

"Drink some of this," John orders as he lifts up the mug. "It'll help with the sore throat."

Sherlock looks at him as if asking do I have to? and is answered with raised eyebrows.

He sticks his hand out with an eyeroll to take the mug as John passes it to him. John's fingers brush against his, the touch sending white-hot fire coursing through his veins and electricity shooting down his spine.

As he sips the drink, John starts stroking his hair again. It's a bit at an awkward angle, with Sherlock being taller.

The gentle touch elicits a soft sigh of contentment from the blanket pile and, in turn, coaxes a smile onto the good doctor's face.

You like this, don't you? Me petting your hair? John wants to say. He doesn't. He won't risk the chance of breaking the fragile balance they have found here.

John would've thought that if Sherlock were to fall ill, he'd be even more adverse to touch than he normally is. Apparently, the exact opposite is true. Sherlock practically purrs when John does this, and he won't question why.

"No tea with caffeine, at least. I know it's not the same...but the honey will help," he finally decides to say.

"Hm..."

Sherlock coughs a bit, the tea in the mug sloshing slightly. Then the coughs wrack his frame, forcing John to take the mug from him before he spills it all over himself.

After the fit is done with, Sherlock is left breathing heavily and moaning in discomfort.

"Oh...," John exerts in concern and sympathy. "Being sick is no fun, is it?"

Sherlock makes some sort of negative sound, a frown on his face. Braving himself, he leans to the left and buries himself into John's side.

Sherlock nuzzles his face into John's shoulder, wedging himself under John's arm. He closes his eyes and deeply inhales the warm, fuzzy scent that lingers around John, on his clothes and skin.

It reminds him of warm, freshly laundered towels, of winter nights in front of the fireplace. It reminds him of what it means to be secure and safe; something he didn't know he was missing until he had it

Another contended sigh escapes his lips as he burrows further against John.

John's breath hitches, his face heating up with a blush as Sherlock snuggles against him. Taking this chance in stride, he slips an arm around the cocoon of blankets and pulls it closer, the pile melting into his body.

He prays that Sherlock won't notice the pounding of his heart or the slight trembling of his hands. He's been more...familiar with his flatmate than one would imagine. Seeing the many different sides of him, doing the craziest stunts with him, even seeing... parts of him that he was less comfortable with (it was an accident), but they had never shared a moment like this before.

And, truth be told, John was enjoying it.

"Don't you go getting me sick, now," John says even as his hand strokes up and down whatever part of Sherlock he can reach.

"Hmph. Never." Sherlock's answer muffled by John's jump.

Leaning his head against the back of the couch, John ponders exactly how he got here. Living a life he didn't know he even wanted, with a delectably mad man as a flatmate, who's now cuddled up next to him like he's a fire and Sherlock's a freezing man.

If it weren't for running into Mike Stamford that fateful day, John would most likely be dead by now, if he's honest with himself. What if John hadn't heard him call his name the second time? What if he didn't turn around? How would his life have been if he had never met Sherlock?

John dismisses the path his mind is leading him down, bringing Sherlock closer to him and resisting the urge to place a kiss to the hair.

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed, blocking out everything but John. John, the once-broken army doctor with the psychosomatic limp, the only person, he realises, that he has ever really cared about.

There's no such thing as long at first sight. It just isn't possible. But with meeting John, it was almost just the same. From the moment Sherlock had deduced all there was about the man, there was something the stranger that drew them to each other like magnets.

Then the worst thing had happened. Sherlock had fallen. Hard, harder than he will ever admit.

And he continues falling with every second John is with him. He's plummeting faster with every beat of John's heart, with every breath that escapes John's lips. He can feel the steady heartbeats--

Wait...

Irregular breathing. Elevation in heart rate.The facts whirled around in Sherlock's mind.

There are multiple reasons for this, Sherlock thinks. No need to get any hopes up...

Over heated? No, John pulled Sherlock towards himself, if he were too warm he would've pushed Sherlock away.

Maybe he's just uncomfortable with the closeness. No...once again John seems to want Sherlock there at his side.

He could just be letting Sherlock indulge, giving him what he thinks Sherlock wants regardless of his own wishes.

And then that leaves...but that's not right, could it? If this hypothesis is correct, then more physical contact will increase the symptoms John is already exhibiting.

Sherlock sneaks a hand out from the blankets and wraps his arm around John's middle, nuzzling his head against John's shoulder again.

"Oi, what are doing?" John exclaims.

"'M cold."

"Sure don't feel like it, you're burning up. Do I need to check your temperature again?"

"Noooooo."

"Yes, I think I do."

Using his excuse, John pries Sherlock off of himself and reaches for the thermometer that he left on the coffee table.

Sherlock has never done anything of this sort before, and it's making John panic. What if his behaviour gives away his feelings? Taking advantage of Sherlock's weakened state and accepting the touches he receives was definitely on the spectrum of "not good."

He sticks the themometer in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock tries to spit it out, but stops after he sees John's don't-give-me-shit face.

Giving John a glare, he accepts to have his mouth intruded and chancing even more coughing fits. He leans back, waiting for John and his warmth to occupy the space beside him again.

Sherlock opens his mouth for John to take the annoying thing away when it starts to beep. John tries to keep his hand from shaking while he does.

When the bothersome thing is gone, Sherlock places his head back where it was and returns his arm to around John.

Symptoms still present. Same intensity as before. Hypothesis still tentative.

John reads out the number. "Thirty-eight. That's a fever." He turns his head towards where Sherlock's face is hidden against him. "You really shouldn't be bundled up like that, even if you are cold. Not good for your core temperature."

Sherlock sniffs, not wanting to leave the warmth.

"And blow your nose, you're getting snot on me."

"Mean." Sherlock clutches tighter.

"No, really, Sherlock." Ignoring the heat boiling low in his abdomen, John removes Sherlock from himself. John holds him with his hands on his shoulders to keep him at bay, missing the heat of him. "If you want to get better you need to listen and do as I say. Okay?"

Sherlock looks sad and miserable. His mouth is down turned in a pout, his eyes lowered like he doesn't have the energy to keep them open, his nose red and raw from all the tissues.

John doesn't want Sherlock to feel like this, and he wants to give Sherlock everything he asks for- especially if it's an impromptu cuddle- but if he doesn't get better soon, he'll be in even more pain than he is now.

Brushing aside a loose strand of hair, he says, "You need to sleep, and drink some water, you're too dehydrated. You need to eat some more, your body needs energy to fight this off. Please? For me?"

Sherlock's eyes flick up to meet with John's, his own widening at what he sees. So he didn't imagine it earlier.

"Have your pupils... dilated?"

John immediately tries to pull his face away, but Sherlock's hand shoots out of his blankets and grabs his chin, dragging John's face back to his.

"Dilated pupils, elevated pulse, irregular breaths..." Sherlock lists the tiny details aloud, trailing off as the conclusion hits him like a bus. His eyes widen even more and he looks at John in mild shock.

"Are you... attracted to me, John?"

John's heart pounds. Shit, shit, shit, shit!

This isn't how it's supposed to happen. Not at all! He shouldn't have allowed Sherlock to come so close, he's been a bloody idiot!

"I-I'm sorry?" John stutters. He pulls his face out of Sherlock's grip, wanting the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

Sherlock isn't supposed to know, this will ruin their entire friendship! He'll have to move out, who would want to live with someone who's basically lusting after them? There's no way his feelings are reciprocated. There isn't a way out.

"Your pupils are dilated, your pulse is elevated, your breaths irregular... In short, you display signs of attraction. Why?" Sherlock repeats, his face neutral so as not to show his feelings prematurely.

A blush creeps up John's neck and onto his cheeks, reaching even his ears. He screams internally, trying, and failing, to break free from Sherlock's iron grip. Funny how a person with such thin, slender wrists can have a grip like a vise.

"Sherlock, it's nothing," John protests, averting his eyes from Sherlock's intense gaze.

"Stop lying to me, John. It's not nothing. Just tell me what's going on." Sherlock's voice softens with his gaze at these last few words. He tilts his head, as if silently pleading for answers.

John clears his throat, suddenly feeling tight.

Well...his behavior indicates only one possibility. Even if he were to deny Sherlock's accusation, there no way he would believe him.

Should he own up to it?

John can hear Sherlock's raspy breathing, his throat sore from talking after so many one-word responses.

"I-" John stop. He sighs. "I don't know," he settles on. Avoid eye contact. Well, he's lying to himself, he knows exactly what he feels. "This isn't a conversation we should be having at the moment, you're sick and vulnerable and really shouldn't be talking at all." Yeah. There. An excuse. That'll work.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him. "Don't dodge the question. Come on, John, you know you can't hide stuff like this from me."

John purses his lips together. Should he tell him? Should he tell him how his heart jumps every time those eyes find his? Should he tell him how his heart shattered together with Sherlock as he hit the pavement...

"John." Sherlock's croak snaps him back into reality.

Gaze still averted, John draws in a breathe. He drops his hands so there's no more contact between them.

"Like you would care," John whispers.

Don't look. Don't you fucking dare-

He does.

What he sees doesn't surprise him, but it isn't what he expected. Sherlock's face is open, more so than he probably thinks it is. His eyes are...hopeful? His mouth is open and breathing, his chest rising and falling hard from exertion.

"Why wouldn't I?" Sherlock seems genuinely confused. Now his hands come up and run and down on John's stiff arms. "I care when you are hurt, I care when you are angry, I care when you are happy, why wouldn't I about this?"

"Because you don't-!" John starts, then lowers his voice when he sees Sherlock flinch back. "Because you don't do...sentiment. You don't do feelings. I get that. I do. And I won't force my feelings onto you. You don't have to worry about that, Sherlock. Please, believe me when I say this." He chances a glance up.

Sherlock is holding is breath, his eyes wide.

"I'll move out, you won't have to worry yourself with that. I'll stay until you're better and healthy, but after that I'll leave, I promise." It pains John to say these words, but it's what he knows is best.

"NO! Don't leave! Please, John," Sherlock pleads. He can't lose John. He just can't.

"Why would you care if I leave or not?" John asks, his voice hollow and empty. He can feel the tears pricking his eyelids. John scolds himself as he tries to blink back the tears, pulling himself away from Sherlock's grasp.

But he can't. A large tear rolls down his face and onto Sherlock's blanket before he can wipe it away.

Sherlock rubs his finger over the dark spot. "You definitely care about leaving. As for me, it's true that I don't usually...'do' feelings." Sherlock gently cups John's face with his hand and turns it to his. Their eyes meet, and the world

stops.

"But," Sherlock continues, "I made a special exception for you."

John stops pulling away, memorizing the feel of Sherlock's hand against his face, knowing this is most likely the last time he'll be able to- and distantly aware that he may catch a cold from being this close. "What are you trying to say?"

"Can't you deduce it?"

John coughs out a laugh. "If you don't 'do feelings' how can you know what you feel is actually not so platonic? How do you know you don't actually want to start a romantic relationship? I'm sorry, but I don't trust your judgement in these sort of matters." John's voice ends low and quiet, and pleadingly.

Oh, how he wishes those words are true.

"John," Sherlock croaks. "Listen to me." Why won't John believe him? He's never doubted Sherlock before, why start now! "Tell me what you see. When you look at me, right now, in this moment, tell me what you see."

John chews his bottom lip in worry. "I see... dark curls, two of the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, those annoying cheekbones of yours, marble skin, and beautiful lips. Your lips."

John's face unconsciously drifts closer to Sherlock's. At this point, he really doesn't care if he catches Sherlock's cold. Something's about to happen. Something beautiful.

Sherlock's face glows a rosy pink at John's words. He never expected him to say something like that.

"I see...," John continues, "the face of Sherlock Holmes. The face of the man I love." John can barely squeeze out the last words. He holds his breath as if exhaling will break the fragile moment that hangs between them.

Sherlock leans forward until their foreheads touch, his eyes scrunched close as if in pain. I love you, John Watson, he wants to say. The words want to spill from his mouth, but something holds him back. He wants to savor this moment, this moment of in-between and decision. Where everything is perfect and with no chance of rejection or hurt.

Sherlock gently takes John's hands and places them at his waist, John's hands trembling in his.

John stays stock still, not knowing what Sherlock is doing. He wants this, he wants this. He wants to touch Sherlock, feel his skin underneath his hands, his breath against his lips.

He slowly, slowly slides his hands up and down Sherlock's sides, Sherlock shivering at the touch. "What do you want from me, Sherlock?"

"Everything," he breathes. He tilts his head and brushes his lips against John's cheek.

John stops. His world stops. His breath catches in his chest and his heart skips a beat. Everthing he knows in that one moment is Sherlock.

Sherlock's hands caressing his face and neck, Sherlock's lips pressed against his cheek, Sherlock's waist underneath his hands.

"I love you, John."

Sherlock's voice in his ear, whispering those beautiful words.

And his world is complete.

"I-I love you, too, Sherlock."

No longer under reprieve, John gives into himself and buries his face in Sherlock's neck. He's wanted this for so long.

The ache he didn't even know he felt lifts at those words. He can feel Sherlock stroking his hair, soothing him. John presses a kiss to the nearest part of Sherlock he can find, a patch of skin at his neck and shoulder. He keeps his mouth where it is for a time as Sherlock holds onto him even tighter, tucking his head into John's hair.

"I love you," John whispers. "So much."

"And I you."

John pulls away to look at this man, this spectacular man, who says he loves him back. Tears threaten to fall but John won't have it.

His gaze flicks across Sherlock's face, taking in everything.

John wants his hands everywhere at once, on Sherlock's waist, caressing Sherlock's face, sweeping his fingers trough Sherlock's hair. He simply doesn't have enough hands.

He settles his hands to cup Sherlock's cheeks. He places a kiss to the tip of his nose, a cheekbone, each eye, "I love you"s whispered between each.

Sherlock revels in the attention. He closes his eyes as John kisses all over him, wanting to remember this moment for years to come. He tries to reciprocate with his own kisses, but John moves too fast from kiss to kiss for Sherlock to give any.

"Is this okay?" John asks, suddenly unsure as he strokes his thumbs across Sherlock's cheekbones. Sherlock opens his eyes at the anxious tone.

"Don't stop," he replies with a pout.

John laughs, landing one last kiss to his forehead and staying there. He moves back eyes closed, "You're still too warm," he says with worry.

"I've reason to be."

Sherlock leans forward until his forehead meets John's chest, his back aching slightly from the angle. Finally, wishing, secret tears and sneaked peeks, this beautiful man was his. And he was John's.

"I wish I had seen it sooner," Sherlock whispers. "If I did, I wouldn't have waited this long to tell you."

A small smile forms on John's lips. "Me too. But we have each other now, don't we?"

"Of course."

They stay like that for a long while, the only noises in the room their breathing, rustling of fabric, and skin on skin.

It's not until Sherlock's stomach loudly growls that the silence is broken. John laughs and Sherlock frowns at him. John kisses away the furrow between his brows.

Japanese is ordered in. The miso soup is heaven sliding down Sherlock's soar throat. John teases him when he lets out a pleased sigh.

They laugh and giggle and cuddle and eat and enjoy. Sherlock's favorite spot is now glued to John's side, his head resting on John's shoulder. He'd like to hold John sometime, but Sherlock's the one that is sick, so he'll accept receiving the affection.

"Can I kiss you now?" Sherlock asks after they finish eating.

"You've kissed me plenty tonight," John says as he does just so to Sherlock's hair.

"I mean properly."

"Ah-ah. You're still sick."

"You'll probably still get sick anyway from just being in proximity to me," he breathes as he stretches up and kisses behind John's ear.

He's proved right a few days later. Sherlock's just getting better but now John is falling ill.

Their roles reverse, Sherlock becoming caretaker. He soon learns that doctors are not the best patients. It drags on for what seems like weeks when in fact it was just a few days.

Throughout the entire ordeal, John would not let him kiss him. "No kissing, no cuddling," he had said. "We don't want to be caught in a loop."

It's been over a week since they've confessed their love for each other, and there hasn't been one proper kiss. No mouth-on-mouth contact. Sherlock's a starved man for it, dreaming about how John's lips will feel against his.

So, when, almost two full weeks later, John takes Sherlock's laptop out of his hands and replaces it with himself, Sherlock immediately perks up. "Oh, we healthy enough today?" he asks as he reaches out for John's hips, steadying him. Sherlock's reclining on his back, John straddling his hips.

John smiles. "I think so."

John leans forward and stops barely a hair away from Sherlock's lips. "Okay?"

Sherlock moves his head upwards, smashing their lips together. John makes a startled noise and places his hands on the armrest of the sofa.

John forces the kiss to slow, making their first something soft and sensational. He uses one hand to tilt Sherlock's chin upwards, Sherlock taking advantage of the new angle to swipe his tongue along the seam of John's lips.

John allows him him, letting him explore.

Their lips move smoothly across each other. Everything they haven't said, all their love and devotion, are communicated in this moment.

Sherlock pulls away, his face a pleasant rosy pink. "Would you like to take this elsewhere?"

"Gladly."

**Author's Note:**

> Where's Mrs. Hudson? I don't know
> 
> This was an RP between me and HellDiverofLykos. I then went back and edited it a little. It could be better but it's so fluffy I don't care.


End file.
